


if the sky is pink and white

by allonsysouffle



Category: Easy Allies RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Illegal Allies, M/M, Trans Characters, a bit of screenplay formatting and a lot of morality drama, people get hurt a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsysouffle/pseuds/allonsysouffle
Summary: “Yeah, but we don’t kill,” Brad says around a mouthful of Froot Loops.It doesn’t sound that bad in context.





	1. skyline to

**Author's Note:**

> in which i'm physically incapable of writing anything that isn’t both gta-inspired, stupidly complicated, and fuuuucking emotional. had a lot of fun with this. part two will probably take a fair few weeks, though. hope you enjoy! <3

FADE IN:

 

A BLACK SCREEN.

WHITE TEXT, READING:

 

“BARN’S BURNT DOWN / NOW I CAN SEE THE MOON.”

– MIZUTA MASAHIDE

 

 

SOMEWHERE, GUNSHOTS ARE GOING OFF.

 

* * *

 

INT. THE APARTMENT – DAY

“Yeah, but we don’t kill,” Brad says around a mouthful of Froot Loops. 

It doesn’t sound that bad in context.

Kyle’s mouth twists into a grimace. “Don’t we?” Ian is cleaning her pistol and whistling. It’s mid-afternoon in Los Santos and the sun looks like a mandarin orange. Brandon is flipping pancakes in the kitchen. Discussions of morality are presently unsurprising.

Brad falters, still chewing. “Name one time.”

“How about I name seventeen.”

“Okay.” A pause; Brad swallows. “So maybe we kill.”

 

* * *

 

EXT. LITTLE SEOUL – NIGHT

However unconventional Los Santos can get sometimes, Ian has never seen something so curious as the sight of Brad crouched in an alleyway sealing up Huber’s split knuckles with Hello Kitty band-aids.

It’s an indigo midnight and this isn’t as surprising as it really should be. The boys are outlined by stark shadows and the neon pink light of the flickering shop signs above them, and the air is sticky with the heat and humidity of the perpetual San Andreas summer. They snap to attention when she clears her throat.

“You asked me to meet you here?” She drops the box of canvas and kneels beside the two of them, shaking her head. “Jesus, really, Huber? Again?”

“It’s good money,” he rasps. His bottom lip is stained with blood and his bare chest is scattered with welts and bruises. “And good practice.”

“You’ll get yourself killed one of these days,” Ian says, but doesn’t push the issue. Instead she wraps his wounds tightly with gauze and whispers tiny comforts, barely audible above the whine of sirens. Huber slips the cash from his back pocket and flips through the bills, counting under his breath. 

“Less than last time,” he mutters. “But the guy tonight was way bigger.” He slips on an easy grin and shrugs. “Bookies. What can you do?”

“Yeah, screw ‘em,” says Brad, brushing his hair from his eyes. His breath is caught in his chest. Because sometimes Huber looks like Adonis, in the dark, with his bare arms and his nose crooked from one too many punches, square jaw lined in dim light; an ancient sort of youth in a simple smile. Bright as Midas; the sun’s rising at midnight. Brad forces himself to look away, back out to the streets slick with rain. “Come on, up you get, big guy. You did good tonight.”

“I always do good.” 

“I know, Mike.” He grips tighter to the knife in his pocket. “I know.”

 

 

**2 MISSED CALLS**

**FROM: ELYSE**

 

* * *

 

EXT. THE SIDE OF THE HIGHWAY – DAY

Ben isn’t exactly sure where he’s going, but at least he’s alone.

He fiddles with the tuck of his binder absently as he waits, legs aching and face numb from the bite of the wind. Wildflowers tickle his calves and the summer rain hisses through the Californian forests, bringing forth the sharp fresh scent of the earth.

It’s his sixth day on his own and he’s not scared anymore. He figured, on the first day, that he would never stop being terrified but it’s worn off now, completely, replaced with a steely sort of determination he’s never really had before. Which is nice, he supposes, but logically it’s a little worrying, considering just a week ago he was having panic attacks on a nightly basis.

He’s watching the cars flit past in a blur of lights, thumb stuck out, and wondering which would take him farthest west. He has never felt farther from Iowa. He has never been more at peace.

A car slows. It’s battered and rust-red and the driver has the kindliest smile he’s seen in a good long while. She’s old and greying and fluffy blue dice dangle from her mirror. She peers at him curiously from her rolled-down window, something like worry (or is it pity?) in her eyes.

“Where’re you headed, kid?”

“Los Santos.”

“Los Santos?”

“There’s nowhere else.”

“How old are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“You’re a strange one.” A pause. “Hop in.”

An engine sputters down the Great Ocean Highway.

Nothing else remains but the whisper of the wind.

 

* * *

 

INT. KYLE’S OFFICE – NIGHT?

His cuticles are bleeding again.

Another sleepless night spent staring, unblinking, at the monitor. Another insomniac’s nightmare, the bitter taste of cold coffee sticking to the roof of his mouth. He reaches for a cigarette only to find the box empty and the ashtray on his desk overflowing. 

A sigh stutters, broken, from his throat, and he sets his eyes back on the computer. Line after line, the code builds itself in binary, and Kyle’s fingers ache from typing and retyping, an endless search for information, for a way through, for some way to untangle the chaos. He refuses to call it hacking; there’s no real malicious intent apart from siphoning off the top of bank profits and offshore accounts of various corrupt CEOs, then filtering that into other, more lucrative places. Like dog shelters. And rent. 

Okay, so maybe it’s hacking.

There’s a knock at the splintering door, and he jumps. He stares forlornly at the keyboard and knows his time is probably up. “Yeah?”

The door swings open and Brandon pokes his head in. “Are you seriously still up?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“It’s six in the morning. You’ve been here for nine hours.” Brandon steps in and crosses his arms, glaring. “Kyle.”

He drains the dredges of his coffee mug. “I am perfectly healthy and completely awake right now. I’m fine. I can keep going. I gotta keep going, Jones.” A beat, and a raised eyebrow. “My fingers are twitching again, aren’t they.”

“Yep.” Brandon grabs Kyle’s arm and drags him gently away from the monitor. “Come on,” he says quietly, “hey, you can go back to that after you get your eight hours. Alright?”

“Alright,” Kyle murmurs, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

Brandon sighs deeply as they come out into the living room and scoot narrowly around piled boxes filled with weapons and wires. “You can’t keep doing this,” he says, not unkindly, leading Kyle to his room.

Bleary, he manages a laugh. “Tell that to Huber. Or Ian, for that matter. Not like we don’t all have our vices.”

“Well, theirs only involve running from cops. Yours, at least, is something I can help you with,” Brandon counters. “Go to bed, Kyle.”

“But-”

“ _Bed_.”

Kyle steps into the matchbox bedroom and sits on his bed but doesn’t move to get under the covers. After a moment he looks up to where Brandon is still hovering. “Jones?”

“Yeah, Kyle,” Brandon answers, with a heavy, tired exhale. “What do you need.”

Kyle frowns. “You don’t sleep either, do you.” Brandon turns to go. “Hey, don’t- Jones. Come on.”

He stops. Turns, again. The space under his eyes is so dark it’s almost purple. Kyle wonders how he’d never noticed it before. “Bosman, I… I said sleep. No questions.”

“That wasn’t a-”

He’s already gone. Kyle nestles into the thin blanket and doesn’t let himself wonder any longer.

 

* * *

 

EXT. LOS SANTOS SHELTER FOR HOMELESS YOUTH – NIGHT

Ian doesn’t like going to the shelter. She kind of really fucking hates it, to be frank, with its thin-lipped caretakers and motivational posters and bad memories and drug trafficking. It’s painful to even glance back at its glowing sign, promising safety, promising a haven.

However, she’s not one to lose track of informants. One just happens to get his meals at the same place every damn day, and that place just happens to be the Los Santos Shelter for Homeless Youth, and she just happens to have… _history_ there.

This city’s never been a place of coincidence. 

She waits for him out back, in an alleyway- it’s not like she’d ever go back _in_ there. Though, she thinks with pursed lips, it isn’t as if the alleyway is much safer. She crosses her arms and waits for her informant, fingers curled around the holster hidden at her waist. He’s supposed to know everything about the fuckers spray-painting fascist shit all over downtown, and she’d love to pay them a visit.

There’s a commotion at the door, some yelling and the sound of ceramic shattering. With mild interest she steps out of the alley and moves to the front of the building to watch, waiting for a fight, and is surprised when out runs a boy.

He looks about fourteen and his legs are stick-thin. His hoodie looks like it’s been made to fit someone twice his age. His round cheeks are shining with what has to be tears, and despite itself, Ian’s heart pangs.

Against every fibre of her rationality she moves closer to him in a confident stride with the warmest smile she can possibly muster. The shouting’s stopped but he’s still shaking. His eyelashes are very long.

“Hi,” she says brightly, and he just about jumps out of his own skin. 

He trembles for a second before shouldering his pack and putting on a brave face. “I- I gotta go, I’m sorry.”

His voice is higher than she expected, and her heart sinks as she realizes. “Where? A homeless shelter is kind of a last resort.”

“And I have to _go_ ,” he says simply. “They won’t take me.”

“I know,” she replies. She can hear the bitterness creeping back into her words. “I remember. I’m Ian,” she smiles, “and I’m not a boy, but I know you are, and- ah.” Her recognition of his Midwestern accent comes too late, and she thinks she understands now. “You’re not from around here.”

He nods, but turns to leave. “I’m sorry. I have to…”

“Where?” she presses, taking his wrist. His pulse is unnaturally fast. “Listen. You have nowhere else. You’re alone and homeless and _clearly_ a runaway and I can’t let you go anywhere on a good conscience. So, you’re coming with me. You’re living with us. For now. Okay? Okay.”

“Uh, that was out of nowhere.”

“It’s how I do things, kid.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re kind of intimidating.”

“That’s the way I like it.” She winks, and he laughs. He’s stopped trembling. “What’s your name?”

“Ben.” He looks up at her. “Who _are_ you?”

She grins. “Oh, that depends. Who do you want me to be?”

“B-but what do you _do?_ ”

“Uh, crime?”

His mouth forms a perfect O. “Crime?”

She rolls her eyes. “Not, like, the bad kind. Like, uh. You know Robin Hood?”

“Like, steal from the rich and give to the poor… you do that?”

“No,” she says excitedly, “ _we_ do. It’s not just me, Ben. We’re a _crew_. I can’t do it all on my own, right? We’re vigilantes. Of sorts, I mean, we want to be. We’re getting there.”

He looks bemused. It’s a start. There’s a sweetness to his eyes Ian hasn’t seen in this city in a very long time. “So, you’re the Merry Men.”

“Now you’re getting it!”

 

 

> **[19:48:09 PM] Elyse:** ian, please answer
> 
> **[19:48:09 PM] Elyse:** i don't know what i did wrong but you have to listen to me
> 
> **[19:48:09 PM] Elyse:** we need to talk. it’s getting dangerous

 

**1 MISSED CALL**

**FROM: ELYSE**

 

* * *

 

INT. THE APARTMENT – NIGHT

“You brought in a _stray?_ ”

It’s later that night and Ian’s in the hot seat. Brandon is far too tired to deal with the situation. 

They’re gathered in the living room, Ian in the ratty armchair, the rest crowded around her with crossed arms and glares. Brad put the kid to bed when they arrived; he had wide eyes but didn’t seem scared in the slightest, which isn’t exactly the normal reaction to entering a falling-apart apartment stuffed with weapons. Nevertheless, there’s no way Brandon’s letting the kid stay here. He can’t let him.

“He’s a runaway,” she argues, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Got kicked out of the shelter. He has nowhere else to fucking go, Jones, you think we can’t handle another one?”

“We can barely handle ourselves!” 

“I couldn’t just let him _die_ ,” Ian says, voice breaking. “And- and you can’t say that when we were all like him once! We all needed a crew and yeah, we found each other and yeah, call it fate or call it pity but he deserves a home just as much as we do.”

Brandon looks at his feet. Remembers every child he’s seen Los Santos spit out. “He’s fifteen, Ian.”

Her lip curls. “All the more reason he needs a place to stay. The rest of us are, what, we’re eighteen, so what’s three years? How old were you when you first got in with a crew, again?”

“I thought we had a rule about talking about that.” His hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white, but he keeps his voice low and measured. “You don’t get to bring that up.”

Ian is about to retort when Kyle steps in between them. “Guys,” he snaps, “listen to yourselves. Ian, he’s right, the kid’s basically just a resource drain; Brandon, you’re being a little insensitive.”

“Resource drain?”

“ _Insensitive?_ ”

“Kyle’s got a point,” Brad says from his spot on the couch next to Huber where he’s knocking back a Red Bull and glaring. “And I’m not saying either of you are wrong. But…”

“But we have a spare room, and it’s not like we’re _starving_ here,” Huber adds. “So can he stay? Or are you gonna keep being an-”

“We don’t _have_ a spare room,” Brandon says before Huber can finish, eyes narrowed. 

“We do if Huber moves into my room,” Brad points out. “Which is fine. We’ve slept in worse places. And- he’s fifteen, Jones. C’mon. Have a little heart.”

“ _He_ is a person,” comes a voice from the hallway, high-pitched and full of tremors. They all turn. Ben pads into the living room, arms crossed over his chest like he’s hugging himself. “I’m sorry. I’m just gonna be a burden, I- I know. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Ben,” Ian pleads softly. “Don’t. You’re safer here.” She moves to take his shoulder and he darts out of reach.

“It’s okay!” His eyes are shining. “I get it. Please don’t worry about me.” He looks to Brandon. “You’re right. And I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll go.”

Brandon doesn’t break, but damn if this kid isn’t bending him hard. “Well… we have a spare room,” he offers. “Don’t we?”

Ben’s jaw goes slack. “I- uh. _Oh_.” Huber and Brad fist-bump and Kyle, however hard he tries, can’t hide his grin.

A smile spreads across Ian’s face. Her voice turns giddy as she slings an arm around Ben’s shoulder. “Isn’t that cute? Isn’t this perfect, Jones? A spare room, and everything, and he’s going to fit right in with us, Kyle can teach him to run comms, and Huber can teach him to fight, and-”

“Yeah,” Brandon mutters, “fine, okay, Ian, you win.” He swallows his tongue and his doubts and every instinct this city has trained into his neurons. “He’s staying.”

 

* * *

 

EXT. THE BALCONY – DAY

“Why did you fight for me?” Ben asks. The sky is yellow and pink.

Ian thinks for a second. Watches the cars crawl like ants. Curls her fingers into a fist. “I couldn’t let it happen again.”

“Let what happen?”

“Me.”

Her phone buzzes. She does not pick up.

 

* * *

 

EXT. NO MAN’S LAND – DAY

“I don’t know,” says Huber with an open grin, “today just feels… _jolly_ , you know?” and Brad rolls his eyes.

They’re in No Man’s Land, the gangs’ fancy way of saying ‘unclaimed shitty territory no one really wants’; a long block of old warehouses, a couple of drug dens, and red lights hanging in windowsills like glaring eyes. Brad cracks a joke about the parallels between cage fighting and prostitution, and Huber laughs but it’s hollow, and the sky is gunmetal grey. They’re not really looking for anything in particular, but it’s a Thursday, and there isn’t much else to do. If anything, scouting is just an excuse to hang around with Huber, and that’s enough for Brad.

“Jolly is kind of a stretch,” he replies, skirting the edge of a pothole. “Feels pretty okay, though.” 

“Aw, come on!” Huber shoves Brad playfully. “We grew up here. This is home!”

Brad eyes a needle discarded on the ground. “Yeah. Home.” He sighs. “Just like old times.” A building looms into view, red brick eaten away by lichen and city rot, windows boarded up. “You remember when we broke into that place?” He points it out with a laugh. “And you cut your hand open on a broken bottle.”

“We were thirteen.” Huber grins, scratching the back of his head. “And stupid. We spray-painted our names on the ceiling. Mine was so ugly.”

Brad elbows him. “Nah, man. It was just…”

“Awful.”

“… _Abstract_.”

Huber smiles toothily. “C’mon. You’re giving me too much credit here.”

“No, really, it was… kinda cute.”

“Well, yours was-”

“Hey! _Hey!_ ” The shout comes from somewhere behind them, spiteful and loud. Brad’s already unsheathed his knife, but doesn’t dare look. Huber swears under his breath. “Ellis! Huber! Hey, Ellis, fucking stop for a second, buddy!”

They whip around simultaneously with taut stances. A man’s following after them, probably in his late twenties, snapback peeking out from under his hood, pistol openly holstered on his hip. His grin is biting and arrogant, bright as the garish ruby-studded chains looped around his neck.

Brad recognizes him immediately. “Didn’t expect to see you here in the light of day, Red.” Remembers the scarlet of blood, Huber’s blood, wine-coloured bruises, the smell of copper. He cocks an eyebrow. “What, one lost bet keeping you up all night, dude? Creeping out of the sewers now, huh?”

Huber eyes him, surprised, the look on his face saying _don’t push your luck with him_ , and Brad has half a mind to just deck Red where he’s standing and leave it at that. But he holds his ground, thumb brushing over his blade.

“Sewers, good one, _so_ funny,” Red drawls, though he isn’t laughing. “No,” he says casually, hands in his pockets, “I was really just wondering about- well.” He inclines his head. “Michael P. Huber, of course, everyone’s favourite unstoppable force and immovable object all wrapped up into one pretty package.” A razor laugh. “No one can beat him! Well. Except…”

“Except who?” Huber demands. “Come on, Red. Brad always bets on me and Brad never loses. I haven’t been beaten in the ring since I was twelve.” He cracks his knuckles. “Why, you wanna go? Test your, uh, _might?_ ”

Red raises his hands in surrender. “Oh, no, Michael, I’m just a bookie.” His smile is eerie, and drips with malice. “No, but I’ve got a new fighter on my hands. I like my odds right now. I’m really just looking for a bet.”

“Get lost,” Brad says immediately. “Nah, I don’t go against the likes of you anymore. Sorry. Next time, stick to the honour of the ring.” He shakes his head. “Maybe then I’ll sling some bets with you.”

“If you fought him,” Red says, speaking directly to Huber, “he’d beat you.”

“He wouldn’t.”

A raised eyebrow. “How do you know?” Red turns around and starts walking away. “See you around, boys. Think about what I said.”

Brad’s upper lip twitches. They stand their ground. “Fuck.” He looks at Huber. “Mike. Don’t.”

Huber looks to the distance, where Red’s disappearing. “I won’t, I promise.” He meet’s Brad’s eyes, looking lost. “Who does he think he is, anyway?”

“Red?” Brad frowns. “Forget about him, he’s a nobody, he’s talking out his ass anyway. Come on. Let’s go home.”

Huber opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “You’re kind of scary sometimes, Brad.”

“And?”

“Like… how you talk. And your smile. And stuff.”

“…And?”

“Never mind.”

 

* * *

 

EXT. EL BURRO DOCKS – NIGHT

The shell of a police car lights up the scene, fire licking hungrily at the blackened metal and clouding the air with the smell of gasoline.

It’s beautiful.

The air is crisp and cool, the night sky bruising purple. The sea brushes against the docks like an old friend, the wash and whine covering the sound of footsteps. Ian finds her, there, in the space between warehouses, warming her hands on the blaze with a blank expression. Her blonde hair is lit like spun gold. She doesn’t look up, but her hand moves towards the holster on her thigh.

“It’s been a while,” Ian starts. Stops. Hovers. Thinks, _this was a mistake_.

She doesn’t reply for a good long while, eyes fixated on the flames. The wind picks up, blowing the smoke and sparks in their faces and finally she coughs, splutters, and turns to look at Ian, eyes big and lined with smudged black. She looks so different to when they last saw each other. “Yeah.” 

Ian’s lip curls. She doesn’t just _look_ different. “Yeah? That’s it?” Waves lap at the dock. “Eight months of- of _nothing_ , what, radio silence, then suddenly you’re sending me a million fucking texts like the world’s about to end, and ‘yeah’ is all you got?” She laughs humourlessly. “You’re fuckin’ weird, Wheezy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Elyse snaps, turning away from the car. The fire lets out a pop that sounds like a gunshot, but neither of them flinch. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

“Oh, come on.” Ian rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Elyse huffs. “It’ll never be how it used to. We both know that. Just- please just hear me out on this.”

“You couldn’t have just met at a bar or something.” A beat. “You had to light a fucking car on fire. Always the flair for the dramatics, El-”

“You’re going to die,” she interrupts stubbornly. She fumbles in the dark for Ian’s wrist and grips it so tight. Her hands are freezing. “Ian, you have to listen to me.”

“I saw the texts. We’re in danger, yeah, so what, when _aren’t_ we in danger?” She almost laughs, and gently takes her hand back to rest it on her hip. “Get real.”

Elyse exhales. “You know I run with Kovic’s crew now, right? You realize that comes with knowing some shit about how this city’s running? You think I don’t hear whispers?” She rubs at her temples. “Ian, your little gang of living death wishes is encroaching on some dangerous intel. People are starting to notice. They’re not gonna send any friendly fucking emails, either. I don’t want to see you guys hurt.”

Ian’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s Kyle’s deal,” she says, “I don’t even- why couldn’t you just _call?_ ”

“I tried.” She grits her teeth. “You didn’t _answer_.”

A deep sigh. “I’m sorry,” says Ian quietly, staring stubbornly at the ground. “It’s just. It’s a little fucking terrifying when your old partner in crime calls you after nearly a year of treating you like you never even existed.”

“I fucking wanted to!” Elyse cries, all of a sudden loud and raging and wild, “Ian, it’s hard. It’s hard when you get invited to join up with a crew that does _bank heists_ , that wrecks this city every couple of weeks, my fucking _apologies_. I was busy. I wanted to call. I swear I did.”

“What’s so great about your crew anyway?” Ian scoffs. There is a certain sort of rage building up inside her that she has not felt in so long. “What’s so fucking cool about killing? About destroying? Hey, Elyse? This city isn’t your playground. This isn’t a video game. Since when were you so- so trigger-happy? You’ve changed. They’ve changed you. We were never killers.”

“They’re not so bad,” she replies, soft. “And- and I don’t kill. I try not to, it’s not like- it’s not like you’re fucking saints, either, you’ve killed too.”

“We’ve never hurt an innocent, though.”

“I don’t _like_ that they do it-”

“So leave them.” The words fall out of Ian’s mouth before she can stop them. Silence hangs in between them, broken only by the crashing of the waves.

Elyse clenches her fists. “Fuck you.”

“I mean it.”

“I joined them for a _reason-_ ”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so busy gunning down civilians, you could’ve said hi once in a while, I don’t know, just a suggestion-”

“Well, maybe I love them!” she blurts out. They both freeze. The wind falls. “Maybe…” Elyse screws her eyes shut. Swallows, hard. “Maybe I’m just _happier_ now. Maybe I finally feel like I’m worth a shit, with them. Like I’m really somebody. Not just some lost, stupid little girl trying to survive on the streets. Maybe now I own the streets, Ian. And maybe that… maybe that’s just better.”

Ian doesn’t respond. Elyse spins and stalks away.

There are no words.

Just a girl, a gun, and the night swallowing sparks.

 

* * *

 

INT. KYLE’S OFFICE – DAY

“What are you doing?” 

The question is softly spoken and scared of itself. Kyle looks past the monitor to see Ben leaning through the doorway, head tilted.

He frowns, clicking idly. “Working.”

“On what?” Ben moves to look at the screen. “Oh, whoa.”

Splayed across the monitor are lines and lines of white text on a black screen, numbers overlaying each other in a battle of translation. Kyle snorts. “Whoa is right.”

“How does it work?” Ben asks, a quizzical look on his face. “Like, what is it doing?”

_Be patient with him_ , says Ian’s voice in Kyle’s head. He swallows his sigh. “I’m taking down the firewall on the systems of this drug mogul that’s been starting some stuff,” he explains carefully, scrolling down to pick out a password from the endless sprawl of letters even he can barely comprehend. “It’s under a pretty heavy cipher, but I’m trying to build a program that can translate it to something I can use.”

Ben scans the lines. “That’s really cool. So it’s like a made-up language?”

“And I have to be the Rosetta Stone,” Kyle mutters under his breath. “But yeah, that’s the gist of it.”

They’re silent for a while, listening to the clack of the keyboard, until Ben coughs a little into his hand and says, “So, uh. What’s everyone’s deal here?”

Kyle spins in his chair. “What do you mean by _deal?_ ”

“I mean,” Ben says, frowning, “I’ve been here for a couple of days and I- don’t get me wrong, everyone’s great, and all. But I have no idea what any of you actually, uh, do? Like, is there some backstory I’m missing out on?”

“Backstory.”

“…Yeah.”

Kyle can’t help his chuckle. “Well. I’m the computer guy. You know that. I, uh, I hack stuff. Get money from corporations, little bits and pieces from a bunch of sources so they don’t notice it. That’s our main source of income. I guess. I can be a sniper if we need it, but we normally don’t do that sort of stuff, you know? Like, heisting? Not our style, really. Huber’s our fighter, though- he and Brad grew up together, on the streets. He brawls down in the rings for cash.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” Ben asks, then laughs to himself. “Wait, no, sorry. I, uh.” He glances at the sniper rifle leaning on the far wall. “Never mind. Keep talking.”

Kyle raises an eyebrow. “Brad’s… well, he’s Brad. He’s a bookie sometimes, always bets on Huber, never loses. Sometimes he’s a thief. Sometimes he’s our stealth guy, works undercover with Ian trying to get information. And sometimes, he’s a hairdresser.”

“Wait, what?”

He gestures to his newly cropped hair. “We can’t exactly afford to go down to Supercuts once a month. He’s good with scissors, I don’t know. Guy’s got a lot of weird talents. Uh, then there’s Jones. He’s the leader, I guess? Kind of? He’s been involved with gangs since… well, since forever. This… _us_ , I mean, we’re kind of his way of leaving all that behind.” 

Ben’s face is solemn. “He seems like he’s seen everything.”

“He has,” Kyle says. Thinks about dark circles, and whispers in the streets. “He really has. So has Ian, though. She’s, uh, she’s technically our medic, actually. But we don’t get hurt much, except Huber.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “Mostly her job is to get mad at us for putting ourselves in danger.”

“So she’s the mom,” Ben says carefully.

“Precisely.” Kyle grins. “Not that she doesn’t also put herself in the line of fire all the time. She’s got a lot of, uh, she calls them _informants_? She’s the one who knows what’s going on between gangs and crews and stuff. Which is handy. And that’s all of us.” Kyle strokes his chin. “Now as for what we do as a whole… we survive. We wouldn’t be able to, if we were on our own. Which, I guess, is why you’re here now.” A pause. “Self-preservation.”

Ben balls his fists. “You could say that.”

Kyle doesn’t push it. He smiles at Ben, trying his best to be warm, then casts his gaze back on the monitor. “In any case,” he says as Ben takes his cue to leave, “welcome to the crew.”

 

* * *

 

INT. THE APARTMENT – DAY

Sunday brunch is kind of a big deal for Brandon Jones.

It’s early morning in Los Santos and french toast is sizzling in the frying pan. The sun streams into the kitchen, washing everything in a cream-coloured light. The crew- _his_ crew- are sat at the kitchen table, laughing about some joke Huber made about betting, and Brandon smiles, albeit wearily, and goes back to plating. _This is a family,_ he thinks. _This is my family._

“Yo, Jones,” Brad calls from the table, legs kicked up on Huber’s lap, “you done, old man? We’re starving out here!”

He scoops up the plate with a roll of his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Stinkin’ freeloaders.”

“We’re not freeloaders,” Kyle poses. “We’re paying you with our good company and nonsensical comedy.”

“Yeah, that clears the water bills,” Ian says dryly with a laugh. “If only your dumb bits could keep the lights on.”

Ben giggles into his palm and Huber beams at him across the table. Ben has been with them for a few weeks now and he’s learning, pretty quickly, actually; he’s getting to be a decent shot, at least. And he’s kind, and they need that. And maybe it’s something, Jones supposes, doling out french toast with a spatula he stole from a Walmart four years ago; maybe it’s worth it- to build a crew. To build a home.

Maybe it’s redemption, he muses. So many gangs are built on destruction, but maybe this one can make something beautiful out of themselves. Ian turns her face to the sunlight and basks in it while Ben badgers Brad with questions about the city, and Kyle is doodling on a napkin and maybe, maybe this is paradise, in a broken down penthouse with mould creeping up the walls, this motley gang of arrogant insomniacs and terrified runaways and maybe they’ll be okay, in the end. 

Maybe it really can mean something.

 

* * *

 

INT. HAUS – NIGHT

Elyse stares at the word on the screen.

**MIDNIGHT.**

The sunset looks like a bloodstain through the open window. _This city isn’t your playground._ And she knows, oh, she knows.

She can hear the sound of gunshots and her boys’ joyful whoops outside. One of them calls her name, yells something about getting fucked up, and she swallows. Clasps the handle of her bat with white knuckles, because this is fire and flood. This is a city turned into a battlefield, this is losing herself in some _war_. This is letting them die with not a word of protest, this is kneeling. This is failing. This is standing by when she promised she wouldn’t allow herself to look away.

So, the city whispers.

A crew falls.

Nobody hears it.

 

* * *

 

INT. THE APARTMENT – NIGHT

“This coffee’s fucking garbage,” says Ian, draining her cup with a sigh.

Kyle huffs, pouring himself another. “Tell me about it.”

It’s nearing midnight in Los Santos and they’re the only two up. Kyle’s poring over a map with a sheet of messy coordinates and IP addresses beside it, attempting to triangulate some position using two pieces of a snapped ruler. Ian’s draped across the couch, polishing her pistol, under strict instruction from Jones to make sure Kyle doesn’t stay up all night, and she watches the lights glimmer below them through the window.

They’re silent for a few more moments, Kyle’s pencil scratching, before Ian sighs deeply, putting her gun down. “Hey, Bosman?”

“Hm?”

“Bringing Ben in… it was the right thing to do. Right?”

He looks up at her. “Uh, I mean. Yeah?” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know, it’s not like I’m the best moral compass.”

She smiles, but her eyes are faraway. “Yeah, you’re kind of an asshole.”

“Yeah.” He frowns. “No, but really. The kid seems nice enough, you know? If he was really going to be homeless, I don’t see how taking him in would be _wrong_ , per se.”

“True,” she muses. “I’m worried for him, though.”

Kyle tilts his head. “Why? He seems bright enough, y’know, always asking questions. Kid’s got heart. I think he’ll do just fine.”

“You really think so? Aw, Bosman. Didn’t know you had such a good soul in that gangly body of yours.”

He laughs. “Oh, I don’t.”

“Under an awkward, startlingly annoying exterior, it turns out that Kyle Bosman is not, in fact, as heartless as his peers believe,” she says in a lightly mocking tone. “No, _truly_ , he’s a knight of the people!”

“Uh, no.”

“A modern Robin Hood!” she exclaims, with a laugh like lemonade. “Stealing from the rich to give to the… uh, wait. This metaphor is problematic.”

Kyle furrows his eyebrows. “No, no, it works,” he argues, “I’m still giving to the poor. The poor just happens to be us.”

Ian’s smirk fades. “You think… you think we’re doing good, Bosman?”

“Huh?”

“Like, in the grand scheme of things. Are we… are we good?”

Kyle’s eyes cloud. “I, uh. I don’t know. Maybe?” He exhales. “We’re trying, right?”

“Yeah. I guess… I guess that’s something.”

Kyle turns back to his map and runs through the coordinates again, tapping his ruler on the coffee table. He thinks, fleetingly, about goodness, and Robin Hood, and young boys in big cities. His tongue tastes like bad coffee.

“Uh, Kyle,” Ian murmurs, quick-fire and shaky.

He pushes up his glasses to see the numbers more clearly. “Hang on, I think I’m onto something here-”

“ _KYLE_.” Ian’s voice breaks. He snaps to look at her. She’s watching the window, trembling, snatching up her pistol again. He has never seen her look so scared. “Go. We have to _go_.”

“Ian, what-”

“Cars. Too many fucking cars, fuck. _Fuck_ , Kyle, there’s so many…” She screws her eyes shut. “They’re coming. They found us. They found _you_ \- shit. Shit, I should’ve listened, shit- we have to-”

“What are you talking about? They found _me?_ Ian…”

She’s breathing heavy. “Get the rest. Get them up, get armed, someone wants us dead and that’s all you need to know.” He hovers, mouth open to ask another question, but there are tears in her eyes as she shouts, “GO,” and he bolts, leaving her standing alone in the living room with nowhere to run.

Ian swallows, hard, and runs through contingency plans, of which none truly apply. _Stay and fight,_ one part of her screams, _you can take them;_ another part whispers, _you are all so weak, escape, run, please_ , and she thinks, quickly, of Ben. 

The sound of rapid footsteps echoes outside the door, up the stairs, the elevator creaks and she shoves a chair between the doorknob and the floor and cocks her pistol and does not look away and does not cry. She does not move. Everything is very still. 

Kyle is yelling in the hall but she cannot make out the words. They’re all grabbing weapons and valuables and she is the only thing standing between them and their deaths and she does not move. Blood pounds in her ears. The world is so loud but she does not let the sound touch her, her head is swimming and she hears, somehow, under everything, a beeping. 

_No no no no no no no-_

A lot of things happen at once.

“GET DOWN,” she screams as her crew skids into the living room just in time for the beeping to flatline and a hand reaches out to her and warmth envelops her body, suddenly, the world is being crushed like a soda can and, for a moment, everything is white. For a moment, it’s peaceful, and it isn’t all ending, and she can hear someone breathing in her ear, and the coffee mugs are shattering-

“NO, WAIT, KYLE-”

It all goes black, then, in the aftermath, her foot collides with the floor and it’s breathtakingly silent and a body is curled around hers. Her skin burns. Something sizzles. Blood drips from her nose down to her chin. She’s able to blink off the dust just long enough to see a mustard-yellow hoodie, her vision clouds with spots of black, and she grabs him by the shoulder just as the gunshots start. 

_Don’t let him die don’t let them die don’t die don’t die don’t die-_

So, it’s chaos, and she’s blind, and they’re running. Someone calls her name and she opens her mouth to speak but she can’t, everything is raw and broken and loud, loud, loud; she drags Kyle to the hallway, hobbling, choking on air. The gunshots don’t stop and she hopes to god that the smoke hides her and someone wrenches Kyle from her hands and pulls her towards the fire escape.

Through one eye she can make out Brad, still in the living room. He’s twirling his knife in his hands with the cockiest grin she’s ever seen and Huber stands ready next to him, knuckles bared. He twists the arm of an attacker and slams their own gun into their head, knocking them out cold. Ian manages a weak smile at that before clambering through the hatch and clattering down the fire escape stairs. 

The night air is freezing and she groans as she puts all her weight on her left ankle. The world is still spinning but she fumbles her way onto the sidewalk and into the shadows. Brandon is already on the run ahead of her, an unconscious Kyle in his grasp, Ben in tears after him. They disappear into the rush of crowds, but she knows where they’re going. She can hear Brad and Huber slamming into the metal of the stairs and she doesn’t look back, she doesn’t cry, the tarmac does not swallow her whole. 

The whine of cars sings a doleful song and she finds herself stumbling down the streets, through alleys, alone, dragging her left leg behind her. There is no time to hurt. There is no time to worry.

No one follows her. She reaches the safehouse with no trouble but her ankle. It’s a basement suite in No Man’s Land under a long-since-abandoned drug den, and a white cloth, streaked with red, is hung in the one window. _Clear_. 

She swallows. Does not think about blame. Knocks four times. 

Ben opens the door; his eyes are puffy and pink. Behind him, Kyle is curled up on the couch, Brandon pacing in front of him. “O-oh my god,” Ben stutters when he sees her, the tear tracks still shining on his cheeks. “Holy shit oh my god you’re okay.”

“I’ve been through worse,” Ian lies as she steps inside, pulling the door closed. “What the hell is going on? What happened to…”

Brandon looks up; he steps back to reveal a flood of scarlet on mustard, a body crumpled, and something in Ian finally snaps. “He saved you,” he says weakly. She ignores him. The red stains Kyle’s yellow hoodie a rust brown. It’s so silent. She remembers his breath in her ear and her throat begins to close up.

“Fucking asshole,” she chokes out, pushing herself forwards, kneeling at the couch. _You’re the fucking medic so act like one,_ she tells herself but her vision is swimming. There’s a bullet wound in his back. There’s a bullet in his back and, finally, after everything, her eyes are filling with tears. “Fucking- fucking _asshole_.” 

He’s breathing. He’s breathing, so that’s something, he’s breathing and she takes his wrist and squeezes it to keep feeling his pulse, a reminder, he saved her so she has to save him back. She turns to Ben. “Bandages. _Now_.” He hovers, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “NOW.”

Kyle twitches, still out cold. She focuses on stripping off his hoodie and ratty t-shirt and doesn’t flinch when she sees the ragged hole in his back. Jones leaves, mumbling something about coffee, but she barely hears him, instead examining the wound more closely and trying not to think about the things that could go wrong. 

Ben hands her bandages. She goes to the sink and tears a strip of cloth off her own shirt and dampens it, then cleans out the wound as best she can. Her hands are acting of their own accord as she carefully wraps the roll of canvas around Kyle’s midsection. He looks so small, like this. Peaceful. It’s terrifying. 

Four knocks, and her head snaps to the door. Ben opens it and Huber and Brad barrel in, breathing heavy, swearing under their breaths. Huber has a split lip and Brad is boasting huge red welts on his jaw and collarbone but otherwise they look unscathed.

“Lost them up in Murietta Heights,” Brad pants, stripping off his jacket. “They were on us but- but we got ‘em.” His gaze falls on Kyle. “…Fuck. Fuck, dude. Is he…?”

“He’ll live,” Ian murmurs, like it’s nothing, like everything is okay. “He has to.” 

Because he does. Because it’s Kyle, because someone’s gotta wake her up with the sound of Tetris at four in the morning, because he’s never done a cruel thing in his whole damn life, because it’s her fault.

Because the world has never been fair but goddamnit it’s _Kyle_ , coffee addict, Kyle who picked up smoking from her, Kyle who likes heights and hates running and donates to women’s shelters and never even fights, because it’s Kyle fucking Bosman.

_Just this once_ , she thinks, desperate, _just this fucking once, please, just save him._

Huber drops to the ground and leans against the peeling wall. “I should’ve- god. I should’ve been in his place.”

“Huber, what-”

Brad frowns. “Mike, c’mon.”

“I mean it,” Huber says, head in his hands. When he looks up, his eyes are shining. “You _know_ me. You all know me, I’m the strong one. Right? I should’ve… I could have stopped him. Should’ve been me. I could have taken it.”

“A pipe bomb?” Brad snorts. “A shot in the back? You’re not invincible.”

“Better me than Kyle!” Huber says, voice cracking. “You can’t say he doesn’t do more for this fucking crew than any of us.”

“Huber, don’t say that,” Brandon says, pained, “you’re vital.”

“For killing?”

“For fighting! For us!”

“So, for killing.”

“You’re so much more than that-”

“I’m the muscle, so _let me be that_ , let me do my god damn job-”

“GUYS.” Ben’s voice cuts through, trembling and high and clear. “Kyle’s awake.”

Ian’s heart leaps into her throat and she twists around to see him, blinking, a tiny gasp barely escaping his lips. “Go to bed,” she says, voice thick. “All of you. You need rest. We all do.”

Brad pulls Huber up from the floor and out of the room, murmuring soft words and twirling his knife. Ben pads after them, followed by Jones, and they disappear into the two matchbox bedrooms. 

Ian slicks some of the hair from Kyle’s face. “Hey, asshole,” she whispers. His only response is a rattling breath. “Hey, hey. Shh. Hey. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” She doesn’t let go of his wrist. “You’re safe. We’re safe. We did it, hey, hey, shh, go back to sleep. We did it. You’re okay. I promise.” A deep breath. 

“I’ve got you.”

 

* * *

 

INT. THE SAFEHOUSE – DAY

“This is so fucked,” Jones murmurs. The August sun is high and burning through the cracked window. Heat seeps in. Kyle is curled up asleep on the couch; Brad and Huber took Ben to scout near the apartment. “This is so _fucked_ , Ian, this is exactly what I didn’t want. I thought- I thought maybe this time around…”

“Brandon,” she says softly, reaching for his forearm and gripping it, “you have no idea how much you’ve helped us. All of us. You can’t blame yourself here.”

He wipes at his eyes with the back of his other hand. “No,” he croaks, “no, I never- I never should have even started this whole thing. What the fuck am I even doing. I… what the fuck, right? God. _God_. You’d all be better off alone.”

“I’d be dead on the street without you,” Ian says, abrupt, quiet. “I know I would.”

He’s silent for a few stretching moments. “I wish things were different.”

“We all do, Jones.”

“I just.” He stops. Takes a deep breath. The room is spinning. “I just want everything to be okay again. I can’t even promise you safety anymore.”

“Los Santos has never been _safe-_ ”

“So why are we still here?” he chokes out. His gaze lingers on Kyle’s sleeping body as he starts to walk away.

The echo goes unanswered.

 

* * *

 

EXT. THE PIPELINE INN – NIGHT

Blood drips from her bat as she spits on the crumpled body.

They’re alive. 

Somewhere, they’re alive.

 

* * *

 

INT. THE BATHROOM – DAY 

Ian tugs the bandage ever tighter across Kyle’s chest, ignoring his grunts of pain and deftly tucking the canvas strips into each other in a sealed braid. She doesn’t flinch when it starts staining red and brown, but it’s a little worrisome, and she tells herself to check over the stitches in the next day or so.

“All done,” she says, letting Kyle slowly sit back up on the cold floor tiles and handing him his t-shirt back. “Don’t fucking rip those out, okay? And don’t overexert yourself, please, Bosman, I know you like to do stuff like that sometimes.”

He slips his head through his shirt. “I won’t.”

“You will,” she sighs, “but you’re off the hook for now. You can go.” He doesn’t move. “Go on, do… whatever it is you do. What _do_ you do here?”

“Who attacked us?” he asks suddenly, unflinching. “You knew who it was, didn’t you.”

She blinks. “Gotta admit, I did not see that question coming.”

“ _Who_.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” she says sharply, crossing her arms and turning away. “All I knew was that someone- someone dangerous- was asking after us. That’s it.”

Kyle stares, eyes not betraying any emotion. “You didn’t tell us.” His voice is toneless, too. “You never thought to say anything about that?”

“Actually, no,” Ian retorts, voice growing louder. “I didn’t, because do you know how many times I get told that? That- that I’m wanted dead? That some stupid gang’s got their eyes on us? A lot, Kyle. This is Los Santos. So, no, I didn’t think all that much of it until they blew up our goddamn living room, fucking forgive me.”

“Who told you?”

“Wheezy.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Kyle looks suddenly uncomfortable. “I didn’t know she still talked to you.”

“She doesn’t,” Ian says. Sometimes she thinks she can still smell the burning metal. “She said something about, uh, ‘creeping on dangerous intel’, but that was it. I don’t know what that means.”

“I do,” murmurs Kyle. “I think.”

“Are you gonna tell me?” she asks bluntly. “Because I’m not much a fan of hypocrites.”

He frowns. “I need some time and a stable internet connection. To… to figure it out. You’ll be the first to know.”

She grins. “Pretty sure Jones is our literal boss, so maybe you should consider letting him in on… whatever the hell this is.”

“Nah, you’re first,” says Kyle. “You deserve to know. And, uh, he is _not_ our boss.” He gets up to leave, trying not to smile. “Don’t tell Brandon I said that.”

“Sweat dreams, sweet cheeks,” she calls after him with a laugh on her lips. “And, let me tell you, those are some sweet, sweet cheeks.”

“Stop staring at my butt.”

“Aw, c’mon! Be confident! Love your body!”

He’s almost out the door. “Let me wallow in my pain and suffering in peace, please.”

“Oh, not a _chance_.”

 

* * *

 

EXT. LA MESA – NIGHT

“I’m in,” says Huber, before Red has the chance to start talking. “‘l’ll do it.” The sky is black and crimson over the alley. Pollution stains the horizon and everything is still.

Red’s sly grin spreads across his thin face. “You can’t resist it, can you.”

“I want to beat you,” Huber murmurs, stony-faced. “And that’s it. No draws, no side bets, none of your dogfight bullshit. One match. That’s all you’re getting.”

“And the stakes?”

Huber smiles thinly. “Ten grande.” _A new penthouse._

“Money?” Red raises an eyebrow. “Gotta admit, I thought you were less predictable than that. C’mon, humour me. Add something to the pile.”

A beat. “Pride.”

“It’s always pride.” His teeth glint white and sharp. “Alright, y’know what, I like that. How ‘bout this. If I win, you and your pretty boytoy don’t show your faces down there ever again.”

Huber thinks of money in his palms, and muddy water. Fleetingly, he remembers the big goofy smile on Brad’s face the first time he won a match, the flood of scarlet on his tongue. He swallows. He’d scrubbed at his teeth for weeks after to get rid of the bloodstains.

A car horn blares; Red is waiting.

“Deal.”


	2. gold seeking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience with this. sorry it took three fucking months, jesus. hope you enjoy.

INT.   THE SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT

It’s midnight in Los Santos, a week after the attack, and Kyle is jolted awake by a stabbing pain in his chest.

Oh, to be young and wanted dead or alive.

He grunts, hands scrabbling to steady himself on the couch cushions. Through bleary eyes, he sees a sliver of moonlight fall from the door.

He winces as he pads forward; he peers through the gap to see Ben, halfway down the sidewalk, backpack on, the sound of heavy breathing filling the night.

“What are you doing,” he manages to rasp out. He clears his throat and tries again, stronger this time. His chest hurts when he breathes. “Ben. What are you doing.”

Ben stops in his tracks. Turns around and blinks, owl-eyed. “Uh.”

“You’re running,” Kyle says quietly. “Aren’t you.”

“How could you tell?” Ben asks dryly, shouldering his pack. 

Kyle shakes his head. “Don’t go.”

“I didn’t want this.” Ben looks like he’s been crying. “Kyle, I’m fifteen, I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t be here. With you. I have to leave.”

“Hey, Ben?” he adds, forcing something of a smile and trying to sound as kind as possible. Ben doesn’t respond, but he stays. “Can I show you something?”

 

EXT. THE ROOF – NIGHT

The metal stairs creak as Kyle drags himself upwards and onto the roof. It’s an abandoned building, near the edge of No Man’s Land, fourteen stories up, and Ben sucks in a deep breath as he clambers to the top.

Los Santos glitters all around them; the skyline aglow in yellow and orange. Mount Chiliad looms in the distance, dark indigo in the night. It’s endless, sprawling; the lights on and on, the restless sea to the West, the highways criss-crossing to surround them with the sputter of engines. 

The sounds of the city are muffled by wind. Kyle hobbles to the edge of the roof and sits, legs dangling over the edge. “Best view in the city,” he says, looking out, and he hears Ben kneel next to him. “You can see everything from up here.”

“Yeah.”

“I used to…” Kyle starts, stops, then starts again. “When I was younger, I got scared a lot. So I used to come here all the time. To watch. I guess I just wanted to figure it out. How the city made sense.” He still isn’t looking at Ben. “Because it doesn’t, right? It’s so… illogical. Realistically, this place should be on fire all the time. No one should live here, it’s stupid, why would anyone ever move here. All the gangs, the big crews blowing up buildings… it’s ridiculous. You know?” He doesn’t stop to hear an answer. “But that’s the point. This is the only place on the planet where this- where any of this- could ever happen. Right? And that’s why we’re all here. There’s nothing like this back east.”

They’re both silent in the streetlight-orange and late-night shadows. They don’t speak for a long time until Ben sucks in a breath and asks, “How can you be so sure?”

“Of what?”

“That we’ll be okay.”

Kyle swallows hard. Ben’s hands are stuffed in the pockets of a too-big jacket, and he’s trembling a little, and he’s never looked more young. “I’m not,” he says finally, the words lost to the whine of the city. “I’m not.”

Ben’s eyes narrow and he mutters, “So it’s pointless, then. Being here.”

“No.” Kyle sighs and shakes his head. “No, Ben. I just- I don’t know that we’ll ever be okay. I can’t know that. But what I _do_ know- for sure- is that we- I- uh.” His fingers brush over his ribcage and touch canvas. “I’m alive because of you. Y’know? Any other gang in this city would’ve left me to bleed out on that living room floor. Any other gang. So that- that’s how I know.”

Ben looks down at the cars speeding below them. “You only got in that fight because of us. If you- if you were anywhere else you would’ve been safe.”

“We live in Los Santos,” Kyle counters. “You think I’d settle for ‘anywhere else’? There’s a reason we’re all here. Do you honestly think there’s a place in this city that’s safer than where we are? With this group of people?”

“But you aren’t safe. You got _shot_.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Kyle exhales. “And- and hey. Okay, yeah. You’re right to be scared. It’s terrifying. But it’ll never not be terrifying, Ben, you have to realize that. We’re all scared out of our minds. Brad’s scared. Ian’s scared. Even Huber. Even- even Jones.” He pauses. “He has nightmares, you know.”

“Jones?”

“Yeah.”

“…Oh.”

Kyle smiles wearily. “I mean, it makes sense. You’re born to a gang leader, you grow up learning how to kill… that’s gonna happen.” He sighs. “Makes the rest of our problems look like nothing.”

Ben’s quiet for a while. “So,” he starts, “so it’s always like this?”

“Yeah.”

“So we’re stuck being scared forever?”

“Better than where we were before,” Kyle murmurs. “That’s the deal, I guess. Trade your past for fighting cronies every few months.” Then he laughs. “Okay, so when I say it like that, it sounds terrible. What I mean is, life is scary. What we have to do is learn how to take that, and turn it into a way to protect ourselves.”

The city whimpers like a beat dog.

Ben is smiling.

 

* * *

 

INT. THE PIPELINE INN – NIGHT

Ian gets a text at two in the morning and takes off down the freeway in a stolen motorcycle before she can convince herself it’s too dangerous.

She pulls into the Pipeline Inn, light dripping red and shadows spilling from the edges of the parking lot and she does not look behind her and she does not check for cameras. She pushes open the peeling red-painted door to see _her_ , sitting stock-still on the twin bed staring at the wall with her eyeliner running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, not looking up. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

There’s blood on a towel on the floor. Ian swallows and sits down next to Elyse, taking her wrist and squeezing it. “Wheezy.”

“Please don’t.”

“If this is about the raid, it wasn’t your-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she says, hollow, to the wall. She sniffles. “I let this happen.” Finally, she turns, and looks Ian straight in the eye. “Why are you here.”

She smiles, or tries to. “Your text.” Elyse’s hand is so cold. “And… Kyle got shot. A little.”

“Oh.” Another shaking sob as her face crumples. “Oh god, Ian, _fuck_.”

Ian brushes the hair from her face. “He’s okay, Wheezy. I promise he’s fine. We’re all fine. He misses hanging out with you.”

“Yeah, and I miss not getting my friends _shot_.” The word echoes in the dimly lit room. It smells of moths. Ian shifts a little further from Elyse on the bed. 

“This was never your fault,” Ian says carefully. She’s here for information and nothing more but it’s _Wheezy_ and she’s hurting, “Really, if it was anyone’s, it was mine. You didn’t do anything bad, you just knew about it. You helped. You tried to help us, I was just too fucking stubborn-”

“He’s our employer,” Elyse blurts out suddenly, shakily, and Ian’s hand goes to her pistol as she jolts backwards and stands, tensed.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Her finger hovers over the safety. 

Elyse starts crying again, and through her racked sobs and ragged breaths she manages to choke out words. “I don’t want this.” Ian slowly slips her gun back into its holster. “I don’t want it, I don’t want them to- to be doing this, we were just- running low on money and I hate it and I hate him and he makes us do so much fucked up stuff and- and- I don’t know if I want to be around them at all- and- and so I’m _here_ ,” she looks so scared, “and so I’m running, Ian. I’m running.”

Ian can’t quite make sense of it. “From your crew? You- you left them?”

Elyse nods slowly, still frantic, still crying. “I can’t do it anymore. You were right, you were fucking _right_ about them. I don’t want to kill anymore. I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want this. I don’t want _them_.”

A pause. “Even James?”

She doesn’t answer. 

Ian tries again. “So what now?”

“Run,” Elyse says. “I’m running. You should run too. All of you. You have to get out of here- he won’t stop. Not now he knows about you. He won’t let you off easy.” She screws her eyes shut. “You have to leave _now_.”

Ian bites her tongue. She knows that’s not an option. “Come with us,” she says quickly, desperation leaking out in the crack in her voice. “We all miss you.”

Elyse tries to smile with her lower lip wobbling. “You know I can’t.”

A swallow. It’s almost peaceful, now, in the low light. For a few sweet moments they can’t hear cars.

Ian turns to leave.

 

* * *

 

EXT. FOOL’S COVE – SUNSET

They’re sitting at sunset in a tiny windswept alcove in Pacific Bluffs that bleeds into Del Perro Beach because it’s the end of summer and Huber wouldn’t stop pestering and Brad’s kind of a sucker. The sky is staining purple and an autumn thunderstorm is rolling in from the north. Briefly, he remembers coming here once, so many years ago, orphans of the city wreaking children’s havoc in the sand. The nostalgia leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

It’s the end of August and night falls faster now, and the safehouse is cramped and the tension there is agonizing. So he’s sipping at a can of beer, shitty beer, the kind that tastes like regret, and it’s so beautiful and Huber is smiling so wide. They don’t do this often. The sky is so big and the ocean crashes, the last light of the setting sun scattering across the crests of waves, and it feels like summer’s closing, like this is the end of something, like it’s over.

Huber laughs about some street gossip he heard as Brad watches the slight curve of his lips, the light in his eyes. His stomach lurches. Dragonflies hover all around, in the wind, in the coming storm and their wings glisten and Brad thinks he may never feel quite like this again. 

He watches him, cheeks bathed in swaths of orange and lavender, sand between the grass, everything at once paling in the dusk and plunging into darkness, and the sun slips behind the mountain and under the sea and the wind whips their hair back and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

He’s known for a while now. It was only a matter of time.

Because there are a lot of beautiful things in the world. Some are plainly so. They shine and glimmer and glint. Some are subtle, spreading slow as molasses across your field of vision until that’s all you see. And some things are so beautiful that they just _hurt_. Like the sunrise on a day you didn’t expect to be up early. Like grabbing someone’s hand for the first time when the world is spinning and feeling time freeze. Like plane windows, or coming home, or children’s drawings, or songs you used to know. 

And maybe Huber’s that kind of beautiful.

Bloody knuckles and all.

“I could love you,” Brad murmurs, admitting it finally, not quite audible but not entirely silent, eyes trained on the clouds dusted in a colour that’s so very close to gold, and he lets the gale take the words and scatter them because it’s so loud now, the wind, and he can’t hear himself think, and Huber turns his head to look at him.

He smiles but his eyes are clouded. His head tilts. “What did you say?” He has to yell above the howling gust. Seagulls call to the sea, a warning, a whisper, a message to stop, _please_ , stop.

Brad lets out his breath and the wind dies so suddenly he feels the whole damn world fall away. Huber’s looking at him like he loves him and he can’t think that, not again, not him, _please_ , not him. He musters up a hasty grin and swallows the bile in his throat. The sky is washed in the black-purple of a bruise, and there are so many dragonflies. He feels the first telltale droplet hit his neck.

“What did you say, Brad?” Quieter this time. Huber’s still looking at him. He’s still looking out to sea.

A deep inhale. They are just boy-shaped things, in this light, more memory than skin now. Tasting of salt and seaspray, and-

And, “I said it’s raining,” he chokes out. “I said- we better go.”

 

* * *

 

INT. THE SAFEHOUSE – DAY

“His name is Kenny Garnet.”

Kyle is at the safehouse’s single plastic table, his junk pile of a laptop turned towards the crew, who are standing in various states of early-morning exhaustion in front of him, painted in the pale light of sunrise filtering through the window.

“That’s the stupidest fucking name I’ve ever heard,” says Brad, deadpan. “And we’ve literally worked with someone named Don Casanova.”

“Hey, whatever happened to Don, anyway?” Huber stage-whispers. 

“Dunno, dude.”

Ian furrows her eyebrows. “I thought he joined the CIA.”

“No, wait, didn’t he say he was moving to Toledo?”

“No, _Laredo_.”

“Ah.”

“Guys,” Kyle snaps. “I said, his name is Kenny Garnet, and he wants all of us dead.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ian mutters. “Fuckin’ Debbie Downer over here, jeez.”

“He’s a drug mogul,” Kyle explains with a glare, “with control over the biggest gangs in the city, and a huge shadow corporation backing him up. You ever heard of Defy?”

Jones frowns and scratches at his three-day-old stubble. “That’s some big name in the stocks, right?”

“Yup, but it’s just a front. They’re kind of a big deal in more criminal circles; the Vagos work for them.” He looks down. “And that’s who attacked us.”

“Should’ve guessed it would be the Vagos,” Brandon grumbles.

“Why?” Ben asks, hollow. “I still don’t get that part of it. Did… did we do something wrong?”

Kyle falters. “Um.” He sighs. “Yeah, uh. I did, at least. You know how my job is wiring money from big corporations?”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Guess they noticed me. Though I don’t know _how_ , because I just looked through the code I used and I didn’t leave any traces or anything. Not to mention, it’s not like they could’ve tracked me- _us-_ down. The IP address I used on that computer traces to Moscow.”

Ben almost laughs. “And where does this one trace to?”

“Canberra.”

“So what do we _do_ ,” presses Ian, not smiling. “I mean… about this Garnet guy. Are we just stuck in here forever? Waiting for him to call off the bounty that’s definitely still on our heads?”

Kyle scratches his head. “Well, the good news is that I don’t think they know about you.”

“What, me, specifically?”

“No, I mean, the group,” he explains. “They’re just tracking a hacker. _One_ hacker.” He drops his head. “And that’s… that’s me.”

“Oh,” Brandon says softly. “Oh, Kyle.”

Brad narrows his eyes. “How is that good news, Bosman. One, we’re a family- if they hurt you they hurt all of us- and two, we literally live together. If they track you down they’ll find this place. We all live here.”

Huber almost laughs. “High stakes.”

“Kyle is literally _wanted dead_ , Mike, that isn’t funny-”

Ian rolls her eyes. “Chillax, Bells.”

“Don’t tell me to chillax,” Brad snaps. “Not right now. This is life and death.”

Brandon puts a hand on Brad’s shoulder with a frown. “Brad, it’s alright.” He looks up at the rest of the group. “We just have to be more careful from now on.”

Kyle nods. “And that’s why you’re the leader. Okay, so some guidelines, maybe, use throwaway phones, I know a place to get those cheap, hoodies are a _must_ anywhere with security cameras-”

“So everywhere,” Ian says. “We get it, Bosman, you like hoodies-”

“Or hats,” he finishes, glaring. “And cash transactions only. Don’t go out if you don’t need to until we figure out how to get these guys off our backs.” He bites his lip. “Somehow.”

“There’s no way we can do that without violence,” Huber points out, and Ben’s eyes go wide. “Sorry, but there’s not much we can do against a guy that controls the biggest gang in Los Santos unless we fight.”

Brandon’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s not really our style.”

“Well, maybe it has to be,” Brad says, words harsh and spitting. “We all know how to fight. We’ve all been killers.”

“That’s not true,” Kyle says, looking pointedly at Ben. “We’re hardly a match for them, in any case.”

Ian buries her face in her hands, groans inwardly, then looks up again. “We should just run.”

“To where?” Brandon asks sourly. 

She balls her fists. “Not Los fuckin’ Santos, maybe? Has it occurred to you that maybe there’s more to living than surviving? That there’s more than this? We can just _go_. We can just… leave! We don’t have to stay like this forever!”

“What other city, though?” Kyle points out, bitterness on his tongue. “Everything’s legal in Los Santos, I can’t just go around hacking corporations from a base in _Seattle_ , are you out of your mind?”

“So let’s stop, then!” Ian’s eyes are wild. “So let’s be fucking- fucking normal! Let’s get real jobs and stop living like goddamn prey!”

“Guys,” Ben practically whispers. Everyone ignores him.

“None of us have ever had real jobs in our lives, Huber and I never even finished _high school_ -”

“It’s not too late for us! We don’t have to be criminals anymore!”

“ _Guys_.”

“We can’t afford to live anywhere else, but I can’t stop you if you leave, Ian.”

“Hang on, Jones, we can just let her- just- just go! We’re a family, we _stick together-_ ”

“You don’t own me, Brad-”

Ben raises his voice to a shout. “GUYS.” They fall silent. He takes in a deep breath. “Stop fighting. Let’s be a little more rational about this.” He turns to Kyle. “They can’t find us right now, or they’d have come here and- and killed us already. We’ve gotta be safe for now. But Ian’s right. We… we can’t hide forever.”

“So we should run,” Brad says snidely.

“Not yet,” Ben poses, “but at some point. I mean, maybe. I mean, we don’t have any money, do we, so we can’t, but- but at some point.”

“I can step up the hacking for now,” Kyle says. “Make some quick cash. And then we can go. We can stay somewhere in San Andreas, even, it doesn’t have to be far.”

Huber nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense to me.”

Brad narrows his eyebrows but says nothing. Jones takes that as a good sign and starts walking toward the kitchenette. “Anyone want a bagel?”

“Yeah.”

“I do!”

“Hook me up.”

“Yeah, one for me too.”

“…I want three.”

“ _Huber_ …”

Despite everything, Brandon can’t hide his grin.

 

* * *

 

EXT. NO MAN’S LAND – DUSK

“We should get bombs,” Ben says, and it’s so uncharacteristically casual that Huber almost chokes on his tongue.

They’re on the outskirts of No Man’s Land, sitting cross-legged on a rooftop as the sun sets in a deep orange; they’re on the lookout for the Vagos and chatting aimlessly.

Ben shifts uncomfortably in place. “I mean… I mean we only ever use guns, right?”

“And hand to hand.”

“And hand to hand,” Ben concedes, “but… if we want to… you know.”

Huber raises his eyebrows. “Burn shit?”

“Yeah, burn shit.” He’s smiling now, just a little. “Is it… is it weird?”

“Is what weird?”

“I like to burn things,” says Ben, staring at the concrete below him, “I always have. I used to do it, like… a lot. Is that bad?”

Huber smiles sadly. “I like to get hurt. Brad likes to steal shit. It’s really not that weird.”

“You don’t understand,” Ben says, unable to stop himself, “I liked to burn… a lot of things. Like, a _lot_.”

“How much is a lot?”

“I started a fire in my school bathroom,” Ben mumbles. Huber whistles. The sun dips below Mount Chiliad. “I didn’t wanna see it anymore so I just. Burnt it. I guess.”

“You get caught?” Huber laughs.

“No.”

Another whistle. “ _Dude_.” Ben shrugs. Huber’s heart melts, just a little. “You’re really serious about the bomb stuff, huh.”

“Well,” Ben says, “we can’t beat the Vagos with pistols, y’know? If we really need to do something, we should do it right.”

“You’re pretty smart for a kid,” says Huber. He thinks of young boys in cage fights. Swallows the blood in his throat. Pretends he doesn’t want the taste. “I’ll tell Jones about the bomb thing. He probably knows someone.”

“Yeah, he probably does.” Ben peers over the ledge. “Are you as scared as I am right now?”

The question catches Huber off guard. “What?”

“Of what’s happening, I mean,” he says, frowning. “All the hiding. The Vagos, Garnet, all of it. Frankly? It’s terrifying. But you… you never seem scared.”

Huber pretends to study his cuticles. “I’ve never _been_ scared.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I know it doesn’t make sense. But I’m not scared at all. I’m fine. I could die tomorrow. I’m… _fine_. I’m good. Always have been.”

Ben clears his throat in the encroaching silence. “That’s kind of fucked up.”

Huber laughs. “Yeah.” Remembers rust red and the thrill of the kill. “Yeah, I guess so.”

They don’t say much after that.

 

* * *

 

INT. THE SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT

“Kyle.”

It’s past midnight and Jones should be used to this but, like, _come on_. Kyle is hunched over his laptop at the table in the main room, draining a mug of cold coffee. It’s summer-storming out and thunder rolls over the safehouse like a warning.

“I know what you’re gonna say, Jones,” Kyle murmurs, not looking away from his screen. “It’s not safe, it’s one in the morning, I should be sleeping, this isn’t healthy, yeah, yeah, I know.”

Jones shakes his head and pulls up a chair. “I get it,” he says softly. 

“Huh?”

“I know how you feel,” he murmurs. “I do what you do. I get it.” He smiles wearily. “I know how it feels to… to think that you have to be doing everything all the time. To, uh, to not be able to stop. I get that. I know you can’t stop it. You… do what you have to do, alright?”

“Jeez, Jones,” Kyle chokes out, smiling, but his heart feels bruised somehow. “Got a little heavy there, huh.”

Brandon glares at him. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, but I knew that already.”

“Shut up and keep stealing money.”

“You got it, boss.”

 

* * *

 

EXT. ROSA STREET – NIGHT

“Where are you going?”

Huber stops dead in his tracks.

He’s three blocks from the safehouse, the moon rising blue, and pollution clouds the streets in an eerie fog. It’s nearly silent but for the groan of cars and the hurried footsteps behind him.

He turns, slow, screwing his eyes shut. There’s canvas wrapped tight around his knuckles. No hiding here.

Brad is standing in front of him, a crease forming between his eyebrows. Hands balled into fists. “Mike.”

“Brad, I’m just-”

“You’re going down to fight, aren’t you.” The words are hollow. Carrying an unfamiliar weight.

Huber swallows. “Yeah?”

“We’re not supposed to,” Brad says, _pleads_. “Brandon said we can’t, and- and you know we’ll be watched. You know it’s too dangerous right now.”

“So we’re not allowed to do anything?” Huber forces a smile. “Come on, man. It’ll be fun.”

“No, it won’t!” Brad snaps. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? Fun? You’re fist-fighting. In _cages_. It’s never been fun for anyone.”

Huber sets his jaw. “It’s been fun for you. You love being down there with me.”

“I thought I did,” Brad admits, steely-eyed, “but maybe it was just the money. Or maybe… maybe I was just a dumb kid.” The air sits heavy on their backs. “You’re not going down there, Mike. Not on my watch.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Huber asks, moving closer, taking Brad by the shoulder, “I’m doing this for us. I’m doing this for all of us.”

“What, sneaking off to god-knows what underground ring when nobody’s home? You’ve never been ashamed of it before, so what is it? _Who_ is it?” His eyes are shining with what has to be tears. “It’s Red, isn’t it.” There’s no reply. “Oh, god. God, it’s Red, _Christ_ , Huber, I thought you were better than that.”

Huber’s lip curls. “I’m doing this for the crew. You don’t understand. You’re not getting it-”

“MAYBE I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU DEAD, MIKE.”

A beat.

The whine of traffic.

“Maybe,” Brad’s overflowing, it aches, it aches, “maybe I don’t want you to keep killing yourself. Maybe I- maybe I worry every fucking time you go down there, and sure, I bet on you but I don’t _want_ to, Huber. I don’t want you to shatter any more bones, you shouldn’t have to do that.” He gulps in breaths, looking down, everything shattering a little, “Mike, I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you dying for me.”

The sky is gunmetal grey.

The scabs on Huber’s knuckles begin to itch.

“Brad,” he rasps out. Just the one word. The air is thick with emotion and Huber can’t punch his way out of this one and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

“One day,” and Brad’s crying now, _god, fuck_ , “one day you won’t make it out.” His words are thick and breaking and his throat is raw from holding back. “If we keep going. If this- if this keeps fucking happening, one day I carry you out broken. You know? You know, Mike?” He can feel the hot tears on his cheeks. “One day we won’t be able to save you.” A shuddering breath. “I can't let that happen.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“You might,” Brad chokes out. “You might, Huber.” They’re silent for a few long moments before he laughs humourlessly to himself and turns his head to watch the road. “Fuck, dude. You just never know when to stop, huh.”

Huber opens his mouth to say something but stops himself, and swallows his retort. Instead, he murmurs, “I know.” Looks at his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“But I,” Huber starts, sheepish, shameful, “I made a deal with Red. And I can’t just give up on it now.”

Brad wipes his eyes and forces a laugh. “Why not?”

“If I lose,” he murmurs, “or forfeit, we can’t ever go back down to the cages. And if- if I win, maybe I can buy us a new place. We can be safe. In the city or out of it. That was our deal.”

“Huber…” Brad shakes his head, incredulous. “I don’t care about the cages anymore. And I don’t give a _fuck_ about Red.” He swallows. “I can’t let you do this.”

Huber drops his head. Pretends not to notice the tears dripping off Brad’s nose. “Okay. I- I just wanted…” He looks at a loss for words. “I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

Brad manages a wavering smile, takes Huber by the wrist and squeezes, swallows the sea rising in his throat, “You’re good, Mike.” A shuddering breath. “We’ll… we’ll be good.”

 

* * *

INT. THE SAFEHOUSE – SUNSET

They’re eating dinner at the safehouse. The clear skies are dusted in rose and sinking periwinkle, filtering through the window to fall across their cheeks; everyone is laughing. Jones is doling out Chinese takeout. Huber is poring over detonator blueprints with Ben. Brad is lying on the couch cracking jokes and basking in the last light.

None of them know what happens next.

 

* * *

 

INT. THE BACK OF AN UNMARKED VAN – NIGHT

They get him in the back of the neck outside the 7-11 on 12th and Sunrise.

He doesn’t hear the squeal of tires on rubber.

 

* * *

 

**[20:48:00] UNKNOWN NO.:** bossy?

**[20:48:19] UNKNOWN NO.:** its lailia

**[20:52:40] UNKNOWN NO.:** (okay, it’s ian. you forgot my codename again, didn’t you. i told you codenames were a dumb idea. asshole.)

**[20:56:51] UNKNOWN NO.:**..bossy? you said you’d text. where are you?

 

**6 MISSED CALLS**

 

* * *

 

EXT. VAGOS BASE – NIGHT

Adam’s knuckles are white around the tranquilizer gun.

What they’re doing isn’t right.

He’s well past the point of caring.

 

* * *

 

INT. THE SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT 

Ian’s almost crying when she bursts through the door, breathing so heavily. “They took him. They fucking took him, or someone did, I _know_ they did, fuck, _fuck_ , not again-”

Jones is up and steadying her. “Ian, Ian, slow down.” He looks her dead in the eyes. “What are you talking about. Who did they take.”

She looks up, eyes shining, face red from running. “Bosman.”

“What’s going on?” Huber says, poking his head in from the hallway. His easy smile drops when he sees Ian’s face. “I’ll get the others.”

Brandon’s jaw sets and he refuses to let the terror worm into his head. “Ian. What happened. Tell me everything you can.”  
She takes in a few desperate breaths before talking. Ben, Brad and Huber come into the room as she begins to speak, halting and broken. “We were out on a run and we split, he w-went to get food and I went to- to the shelter to see if there were leads and I told him to text me when he wanted to meet back up but he didn’t, he didn’t for a _really_ long time so I tried to text him and he wasn’t answering, and I called and called and he never picked up and _please tell me I’m overreacting_.”

“You’re overreacting,” Brad lies. “His battery probably died or something.” She doesn’t respond. “Ian. Ian, it’s _fine_ , give him some time.”

“No no no no no this is all my fault- if he’s dead- _if he’s fucking dead_ I’m gonna kill him-”

Huber’s mouth twists into a frown and he takes Ian by the wrist and squeezes. “Ian, it’s going to be fine.”

“We don’t know for sure that anything _bad_ happened to him,” Ben reasons, but Brandon’s already racing to Kyle’s laptop, swearing under his breath. 

He types in a password and opens a couple of windows. “All the burner phones have GPS functions, I can track him.”

“You’ve had us on GPS this whole time? Isn’t that a little invasive?” Brad snarks. 

“Yeah,” Brandon says, “for this exact reason, don’t get smart with me right now- _fuck_ , come _on_.” He bangs his fist on the table just hard enough to make Ben jump. “Come on, the one time- it’s not tied to the phone battery, so why isn’t it picking up, what the hell, why isn’t it _saying_ anything.”

“Uh,” says Huber, monotone and humourless, letting go of Ian. “They probably destroyed his phone.”

“Fuck,” Brandon breathes.

“Fuck,” Ian hisses, “what the fuck do we do, how the hell do we get him back.”

Jones looks at her, eyes shining too bright, eyebrows creased. “Garnet. We have to go for Garnet.”

“We?” Brad exclaims. “Sorry, you want us- a terrible pickpocket, a hothead- sorry, Mike-, a criminal hipster and a _literal child_ \- to go up against the guy with the biggest gangs in Los Santos wrapped around his finger?”

“We have to try,” says Ian, voice cracking. “Don’t we?”

Brad’s fingers go to his temples. “So _how_. We don’t know where they’re keeping him, we don’t know how many of them there are, what his status is, if they know about us…”

Ian smiles thinly. “I think I might know someone who does.”

 

* * *

 

 

**[21:08:57] UNKNOWN NO.:** you got a minute?

**[21:09:23] UNKNOWN NO.:** and by a minute i mean several hours and also, maybe, a rescue mission

**[21:10:49] UNKNOWN NO.:** this is ian. they took kyle. uh. we need you

**[21:12:08] Elyse:** coordinates

 

> { sharing current location… }
> 
>  

* * *

 

Elyse bursts into the safehouse eighteen minutes later, out of breath, hair wild and tangled. The crew is standing around a tourist’s map laid out on the front table, arms raised in argument, and they all fall silent as she pads through the door.

“Hey, guys,” she says with all the casuality she can muster, lifting a hand in a slow wave.

Huber laughs amazedly. Jones screws his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, then walks to her, grabbing her forearm. “Thanks for coming back.”

“I’m here to help,” she says, “or, I am now. I-I promise. This time around.”

Ian can’t help her open grin. “This time around.”

“You know about them,” Brad says flatly, not smiling. “About who took Kyle. Don’t you?”

Elyse’s gaze turns to steel. “Know about them?” She laughs bitterly. “I worked for them. Note the past tense, please. They took Kyle because he was the only one out of you they had information on, probably. He cracked Garnet’s security. He’s a threat as long as he can make words with his mouth.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” Brad demands, eyes wilder than normal. “Huh? You worked for him. How do we know you’re not still his?”

Wordlessly, Elyse lifts the bottom of her shirt and turns to show them the scabbed-over bullet hole in her side. Brad’s jaw sets, but he nods slowly. 

“Where did they take him?” Huber asks. “Why not just come here?”

Her mouth twists into a frown. “Might’ve thought you’d trap this place, if they tracked him long enough to know how much time he spent here. And as for where he is now, knowing Garnet, he’s with the Vagos.”

Brandon swears. “Vagos? Really?”

“They have a base out near the Sandy Shores Airfield,” Elyse explains, “next to their crack houses, and it’s remote, and well-hidden, and crawling with guards. All the interrogations happen there. Garnet doesn’t work out of that building, though, usually, so if you wanted to look for him…”

“Kyle’s the important thing,” Ian snaps. “We don’t need Garnet, we need to get Bosman out of there and get the hell out of dodge.”

“Don’t you want to get back at Garnet, though?” asks Brad. “Because I want that way more. Like, dude, I get it, you have codependency issues-”

“That’s fucking rich, coming from you,” Ian snaps back. “And hey, I don’t want to pick a fight with the most powerful guy in this cesspool of a city, maybe I just want my friend to be _safe_.”

“Ian’s right,” says Brandon, eerily calm. “Kyle comes first. Always.” He turns to Elyse. “Tell us everything you know.”

 

* * *

 

EXT. A CAR PARK – NIGHT

There are bombs in the trunk of Jones’ car now.

They planned for hours. It was hard and scary and complicated but they know what they’re doing, now, and there are bombs in Ben’s hands, things he didn’t know he knew how to make, and everything might be so, totally fucked but he keeps repeating the words in his head. _We have to try. We have to try._

As he finishes strapping down his equipment to the trunk he turns his head to look at Ian. It’s just the two of them, setting up before they set off. She’s standing idly in the dim orange light of the streetlamps, sharp jaw lined in sharper shadow, the barest hint of stubble on her cheeks. She’s steely-eyed and somber, and he realizes acutely how different she is from that manic, wild woman who he once thought he knew.

“Do you love him?” he blurts out. She tilts her head. “Kyle, I mean.”

She smiles. “No, Ben. It’s- it’s different, I guess. Not like…. like _that_. You know?”

“I think so?”

“It was,” she starts, then stops, then starts again. “It was just us three, in the beginning. Me and Kyle and- and Elyse. I got beaten out of the youth shelter and they followed me, just ‘cause they thought it was wrong. Three of us against the world.” She chuckles. “We were stupid kids. Your age, must have been. Something like that. And, stupid, god, much stupider than you, we were… we were pretty reckless. But we had each other’s backs. Kyle especially. So I’ve gotta have his.”

“That’s still love,” Ben offers, “even if it’s not. You know. _Love_ -love.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “I guess you’re right. It’s something.” She sighs. Thinks about sniper fire from above, their old apartment, three children in the crossfire of a city dripping danger. She shuts the trunk with a loud bang. “It’s certainly something.”

He exhales into the sweet summer air. “We can do this. Right?”

“Yeah,” she says after a hesitation. “Yeah, I think we can. As long as we follow the plan.”

Ben nods gravely. Repeats his directive in his mind again. _Plant by one. Trigger at two. Stay on comms. Stay hidden. Shoot whatever moves._ His hand grazes over the cool metal of the gun under his shirt, and the remote detonator, heavy in his pocket. 

_We have to try. We have to try. We have to try._

 

* * *

 

INT. THE SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT

Brad tightens the straps of the body armour around Huber’s shoulders. His hands are shaking. Why the fuck are his hands shaking? 

Huber looks all sharp edges in the fluorescent white lights, all his boyish softness gone now, a gun in his hand, knuckles wrapped in canvas and they’re both scared, it’s kill or be killed and it’s not like they haven’t done this before but everything seems so much more urgent, tonight.

“Don’t you die on me out there,” Brad says weakly. “I need you to laugh at my bad jokes.”

Huber smiles, wide, but it isn’t genuine. “I won’t. I swear.” His voice cracks on the last word and he stares at Brad like the world is ending and neither of them want to be the first to run into the bomb shelter.

Because that’s what the city is, that’s what it’s always been. Death down every alleyway, it’s not like this isn’t _normal_. It’s not like it’s new.

But it’s different now, and Brad feels it. And Huber feels it. And they don’t speak. Boy-shaped things turned child soldiers in a city on fire.

“I hope this works,” Brad murmurs, choked-out, turning to leave. Swallows the words lodged in his throat. “See you on the other side, Mike.”

At that moment, Elyse is driving Ian and Ben to the site and they’re arguing over who the fake hostage will be, and Brandon is packing up gear and pacing in the next room, and Kyle is locked in some basement somewhere and the city is _alive_ and breathing its sickly fumes across San Andreas, everything alight, somewhere there are kids fighting in cage matches in abandoned drug dens and crews dropping bombs from cargo bobs and someone is probably bleeding out on a street corner, and two boys in shitty armour are gearing up to fight and both of them want to say what they’re really thinking but neither of them ever do.

So, the city whispers.

A crew rises.

Nobody sees them.

 

* * *

 

INT. A VAGOS WAREHOUSE – NIGHT

_Click._

Ben presses his back to the crate. He is alone in the warehouse. He raises his wrist to his lips and speaks into the mic hidden there. “First den’s set.”

Jones’ voice buzzes online. Ben can’t see him, but he’s perched on the roof of a building a couple hundred years away from the warehouses, staring through the scope of Kyle’s sniper rifle. “Move on. Quick. Guards are moving past den two in five. Find an in.”

“Got it.” 

A quick glance back. 

Flashing red.

 

**59:58**

**59:57**

**59:56**

**59:55**

 

* * *

 

EXT. SANDY SHORES AIRFIELD – NIGHT

The airfield is still in the crisp indigo midnight. The tall grass tickles Ian’s legs as she steps out of the car. They’re a fair distance away from the warehouses where they dropped Ben off; now they stand in front of the Vagos base, a ramshackle concrete building that’s low and long and covered in spray paint, casting long shadows across the plain.

“Run through the plan again?” Ian suggests, and Elyse steps out to stand next to her, wind buffeting their figures in the blue dark.

She stands tall, but she’s shaking a little. Ian doesn’t mention it. “I cuff you. Then I drag you in as my prisoner and take you down to the cells. We get to Kyle. Ben blows the warehouses and everyone runs out-”

“Hopefully.”

“ _Hopefully_ runs out,” Elyse concedes, “and if they don’t, we have Huber and Brad on backup nearby, then we bust Kyle out and we run like hell.”

“Wow. The detail of it all. I’m in awe.”

“We were on a time crunch.”

“This is going to end in flames,” Ian mutters.

Elyse frowns. “C’mon, we got this, you know we do.”

“Oh, I know,” says Ian, smiling despite herself, “we totally got this, but I also know that we’re absolutely going to fuck something up and it’s gonna be _hugely bad_.”

“You’re such a pessimist,” Elyse laughs, then pulls Ian’s arms around her back. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, Wheezy.”

She pulls out a plastic zip-tie and cinches it tightly around Ian’s wrists, then switches on the mic curling around her ear, hidden by her curls. “All set, Eagle One.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jones buzzes in static. “It’s just Jones, I told you, codenames make everything harder.” He pauses. “You’re clear to go, though.”

“Here we go,” Elyse murmurs, “just stay quiet and look fucked up and they won’t ask questions. Stick to the plan.”

Ian is acutely aware of the pistol in its holster at her waistline. She says nothing as Elyse shoves her gently towards the door of the base, where two guards are lounging against the concrete wall smoking cigarettes. They reach for their rifles when they reach them.

“What’s your business?” one of them demands; he’s short and stout, whereas the other is tall and lean. Ian notes the mental convenience of this; there always seems to be one short guy and one tall guy.

Elyse tighten’s her grip on Ian’s hands. “Garnet had me catch a prisoner for him. Friend of that hacker he’s got down there.”

“Didn’t you leave that other group, Blondie?” the tall one sneers. “Garnet’s best gang. They was back here a few hours ago droppin’ some kid off. Heard you left ‘em a while back- what are you doin' back here, chica?”

“Freelancing,” she says without missing a beat. “He pays well. I took his job. That’s all it is.”

“Sure, honey,” the short one says. “Still need a password, even if you were one of the famous five or whatever the fuck y’all called yourselves.”

Elyse’s fingers go to her temples. “There were six of us, we were called Funhaus, and the password is Red Eagle.”

Wordlessly the tall one pushes open the door. Elyse nods, unsmiling, and drags Ian inside. The door slams shut behind them with a resounding _bang_.

Inside it something entirely unexpected- it looks normal. Not normal by street-gang standards, though; it’s clean, and sectioned off, looking not unlike something akin to a police station, really, but much barer. Ian tries not to stare at the people milling around, some at a station of beefy computers, some examining weapons, some simply standing around trading smokes. A woman cleans out a hooded girl’s stab wound in a stained plastic chair. Two men are laughing over a game of cards. One of the boys smoking looks like he’s twelve.

In the back of her mind, some part of her recognizes that these people are not her enemies. 

Elyse pulls her to the side towards another door and pushes it open. She nods at another set of guards and they part to let her through, down a flight of stairs into a corridor. It’s dark, here, and chillingly quiet. Something is dripping. The fluorescent lights above them flicker, giving them a dim view of a line of doors in the hallway, none of them numbered. 

“It’s really that easy?” Ian hisses, barely audible. Elyse shrugs silently, pulling out a knife and severing Ian’s zip-tie. Swallowing hard, she kicks the first door open. 

There’s nothing, apart from an empty chair and a rotting desk. They move to the next one- it looks the same. On the third Elyse sucks in a shuddering breath and freezes in the doorframe.

“Is he,” Ian whispers, mind racing, suddenly scared out of her mind, “is he…”

Elyse takes a deep breath, then pulls her inside and shuts the door behind them quietly. And he’s just _there_ , Kyle, in the flesh, hair a mess, skin pallid, it shouldn’t have been this easy. And he’s busted up but it isn’t that bad, what, a split lip and a black eye, he’s unconscious but he’ll live and Ian’s heart swells three sizes because this city never gives her what she wants but this time- this time she’s taking it for herself.

Elyse laughs into her hand. “We did it. We actually did it.” She taps on her mic. “Jones, we’re in, we found him.”

“What’s his status?” Jones sounds incredulous.

“Unconscious, but probably not for-”

_Bang._

Ian only has time to think, _so here’s the catch_ , before the door slams open.

Jones’ voice is still fizzling from the headset. “Elyse? Ian? Do you need backup? Guys? _Guys?_ ”

Elyse’s gun is already loaded and pointed at the man standing in front of them. The door closes behind him and he lifts his hand to lock it. His shirt sticks so tightly to his chest. The sickly fluorescents make his gold hair shine green.

He chuckles lowly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“You’re dead, James,” Elyse says, soft and measured. He doesn’t have a weapon and it’s two against one, but somehow, he’s still smiling. “You’re fucking dead.” Her voice turns cold.

“You won’t kill me,” he says, casual, matter-of-fact, and Ian wants to punch him square in the jaw, “you can’t.” He and Elyse start circling each other, a chilling dance around Kyle’s still body, and Ian is frozen in her place, watching in a thin, surreal terror, pistol still in its holster.

“Just fucking watch me,” Elyse snarls, her own pistol aimed at his throat but her hands are shaking, “you fucked up my life, James, you made me do shit that no one would believe, you made me _this_ ,” she sobs but swallows it in the same breath, “you made me a _killer_.”

James narrows his eyes. “And you loved me.”

“Note the past tense,” she snaps, and Ian bites down a terrified laugh because the clock is ticking and _why hasn’t she shot him yet_ and _why doesn’t he have backup_. “What do you want, James?” she asks.

He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want to fight-”

“Too fucking bad-”

“-I just wanted to tell you that as soon as you left everything went to _shit_ ,” he admits, voice strained. “That you were the only reason we ever functioned. We need you back. We’re at each other’s throats.”

“Tough shit,” she replies, eerily calm. “That’s not my problem anymore.”

“Garnet knows you’re here,” he says airily, and Elyse stiffens. “Fuck knows how, I didn’t tell him but he’s coming.” A wolf’s grin. “So good luck with that, Wheezy.”

Her finger tightens on the trigger as they continue to loop, around and around. “Don’t call me that. _Don’t you fucking call me that._ ”

“You left.” He balls his fists. “I think I can call you whatever I want.” Slowly, silently, Ian starts inching to the left.

“You’re a fucking monster.”

“In a city of monsters,” James says, light as a feather, “I’m not that bad.”

Elyse laughs. “Not that bad?” Hot tears. Memories of bones snapping. “You took _everything_ from me. You used me, lied to me and made me a murderer, and you think I’m too weak to pay that back?”

James smiles. “You always have been.”

So does Elyse. “You’re right,” she says, bitter smirk dancing on her lips, as she steps back to let Ian dive forward and shoot James in the Adam’s apple with a terrible _crack_.

He crumples to the ground. 

Silence falls.

Ian tosses the tranquilizer gun back onto the desk and breathes out, breathes in, quickly, feels her pulse to know for certain she’s alive, not letting herself panic now. They beat him. He’s dealt with. _Now Kyle. Now run._

Elyse dries the tears staining her cheeks and pauses to spit on James’ unconscious body- then frowns, and stomps with all her force onto his upper arm. There’s a satisfying crunch under her boot.

“You okay?” Ian asks hesitantly. Elyse says nothing, steely-eyed and war-touched, and turns to Kyle, still tied onto the chair. She slices through the ropes around his wrists with ease and starts shaking him awake.

There’s nothing for a few long moments. Time stretches. Ian reaches out to shake his other shoulder and suddenly a wheeze leaves his throat with a stutter, Elyse’s face breaks into a grin and Kyle’s eyes blink once, twice, three times.

“He’s awake, we’re fine, tell Ben to detonate,” Ian murmurs into her mic, then switches it off before Brandon can reply. She sizes up Kyle, who’s lifting his head and now he’s coughing, he’s wiping the sleep from his eyes and god, nothing matters anymore, the world could burn up in the next three seconds for all she cares because he’s okay. They did it.

“Are you good?” Elyse asks, breaking into the careful silence.

Kyle sucks in a deep breath and savours it. Then he says, cocking his head, “Been worse. Honestly, I could go for a coffee. Do you guys have any coffee?”

“Fuck you,” Ian chokes out. A smile spreads across her face and, despite everything, she’s laughing, because god fucking damn it, it’s Kyle Bosman, and he’s okay. He’s got that stupid fucking smug grin on his face, and he’s okay, and he’s alive, and it’s _Kyle_. “You’re an asshole,” she says, “you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, still smiling. “Yeah, I know.”

Ian’s heart swells four sizes. She stoops to examine his black eye. “Bossy, you have got to stop getting hurt, this is kind of ridiculous.”

He rolls his eyes. “At least I didn’t get shot this time.” A pause. “Are you… uh. Never mind.”

“What?”

“You’re crying.”

Ian blinks and brings her finger to her waterline. “Huh. Guess I am.” She breathes out shakily. “I, uh. I’m glad you’re okay, Bosman.”

Kyle smiles, eyes crinkled. “I should hope so.”

Faraway, something cracks like buckshot. An alarm begins to blare, piercing their ears as it echoes through the concrete of the basement and the floor above. Dust falls from the ceiling; people are beginning to run.

“And there’s our cue,” Ian says brightly, casually wiping away the tears. “Let’s roll.”

Kyle snorts. “You still haven’t told me what’s going on. I still don’t know how I _got_ here!”

“You got kidnapped, we broke into a Vagos base to save you and Ben’s just blown up half the cocaine stock of the city,” Elyse says breezily. “And now we have to run like hell.”

Ian pulls Kyle from the chair and lets him lean into her shoulder. “Well, run is a strong word. But yeah, that’s kind of it.”

“You guys are insane,” he says as the shouting upstairs gets quieter; they’re all leaving, just like they planned.

Ian’s grin sparkles as, together, arms around each other, they stagger out of the room. “You love it, though!” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

No one looks at the body on the ground.

 

* * *

 

EXT. SANDY SHORES AIRFIELD – NIGHT

“Did he blow it?”

“I don’t know, do you see anything?”

“Dude, they’re all running out, he probably blew it.”

“Should we… should we be getting ready?”

“For what?”

“…For the getaway?”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Yeah, probably, huh.”

They’re sitting on top of the getaway car with their chins in their hands and trading their one pair of binoculars back and forth as a tinny alarm bell begins to ring, faraway. They’re parked in the tall grass behind the Vagos base, keeping watch, on call for backup, their body armour discarded beside them; they don’t need it now. The night is sweet and silent in cobalt and bruise-black.

Their comms buzz with static. “Guys, you’re gonna wanna go in for backup once they’re mostly cleared out.”

Brad grins. “Did he blow it, Jones? Did we do it?”

“Yeah.” They can hear Brandon’s smile through his sentences. “Yeah. They have Kyle too, let me just- Ian? Status?”

“Coming,” she says with a crackle. “Sorry, we-” She stops, and they hear a gunshot. “Sorry. Got caught up in something. We’re staying down until everyone’s out but we need backup to bring us to the car, Kyle’s kinda- he’s kinda busted up.”

Brad’s already off the roof. “Got it, we’re coming.” He flicks his knife open as Huber lands behind him. He turns to reach for their body armour. “Just say when and we’ll-”

Suddenly, he can’t hear anything.

Deafening blades slice clean through the cool air.

Beating wind drowns the grass in waves.

He grips his knife with a shaking tightness and whirls around to see a helicopter flattening the plain before him, black as shadow. He braces as the wind hits him full-force.

“Huber? Brad? Hello? Talk to me. What’s your status?” Jones’ voice seems so far away. “Ian, Elyse, I think you’re on your own…”

A man steps out of the helicopter.

He’s lanky and tall and stubbled; in the black of night his features are so hard to make out but he’s smiling, somehow, arms spread almost in welcome, he’s wearing a tracksuit and gold chains, and as a ray of moonlight passes, they swear they know his face from somewhere-

“Red,” Huber breathes and all of a sudden the world shifts. Sharp grin like a wolf bite, gems around his neck glinting scarlet, crimson, hair jet black in the darkness, and Red _laughs_.

“Oh, no,” he says, but he’s not Red, is he- _is he?_ \- “you’re still confused, huh. You still don’t get it.” A shadow emerges from the helicopter behind him. “You still haven’t figured it out.”

“Figured _what_ out,” Brad spits over the wind. “What are you _doing_ here?”

A bitter laugh. “You’re not as smart as I thought you were, huh?” Red’s lip curls. “I’m Kenny Garnet, assholes! I’ve been watching you this whole damn time!”

The world doesn’t stop but it damn well sure feels like it to Brad. He gapes, out of control, unaware of Jones shouting through the comms, only seeing red now.

“Bullshit,” Huber says, but it all makes sense and it hurts, there were never any stakes, he always had the upper hand. “Why didn’t you kill us all, then? You knew where we were. Why the hell are you doing this? Why bother?”

Garnet bursts into a laugh. “You think I wanna slaughter you guys? Not really my style. No, I just want to settle a bet.”

“Fuck you,” Huber says, gritting his teeth. 

“We had a deal, Michael,” Garnet says, his grin showing his gold tooth. “But all you’ve done is run from me. What happened? Didn’t need the money anymore?”

Huber sets his jaw. “I’m done fighting.”

“Oh, but you’re never done,” and Garnet snaps his fingers, and the shadow behind him emerges into the light, “and I brought my best fighter with me, just to make it all _oh-so-convenient_. Isn’t that right, Eagle?”

The shadow is a man. Or, more appropriately, the shadow is a monster- upwards of six feet of raw muscle, rippling veins, all sharp angles and everything bulging. This is Red’s Eagle, Red’s champion; wordless, watching, waiting.

“I’m not fucking _fighting_ him,” Huber shouts above the wind. “I said no. I don’t want your money. I don’t want to win, just let it _go_.” 

He looks so small, in the inky midnight, white t-shirt and jeans in the middle of a field in a desert with the sky stretching starless above. He looks so small and so powerless and Brad clenches his fists because there’s nothing he can _do_.

“You made the mistake of thinking it was a choice.” Garnet’s words drip with malice and they’re the last thing Huber hears before a fist connects with his face.

And Brad screams.

And their vision goes scarlet.

Huber rolls away in the grass and gets back up, cheek stinging, and he puts on his bravest face and charges but the Eagle is terrifyingly fast, he dodges into shadow and Huber grasps at thin air. 

They are boy-shaped things fighting monsters in the darkness, and Brad is heaving, hardly watching, this can’t be _happening_ , it’s the one fight Huber can’t win and Garnet is standing grinning gleefully on the other side of the fight- Brad doesn’t move to him. He knows he’d get stopped if he tried.

Huber feels his lip burst and tastes iron. His vision spins, his head pounds, _come on, come on, you can take him_ , he ducks out of another blow and elbows the Eagle in his tendons but he rises, unaffected. Huber swallows, hard.

Brad blinks the hot tears from his eyes and forces himself to watch the fight, taking in the terrible dance of it, the heat of it, the shouts, they are just fumbling for power and pride in the grass while a rich man takes his prize and by god, Brad would do anything to have a gun in his hands. 

Praying, he throws his knife straight at the Eagle’s back instead.

_Thunk._ It sticks in between his shoulders and he _roars_. Brad shouts with glee. Garnet’s eyes narrow. Huber takes the opportunity to go for the throat, grinning all the while, but the Eagle rips the knife from his own back and, in one sweeping, horrible motion, sticks Huber in the stomach.

The world falls fast.

Brad falls faster.

Huber crumples to the ground first, though, hands over his stomach, black blood seeping and it hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_ and he’s silent while Brad is screaming ten yards behind him, and the Eagle makes his way back to Garnet and into the helicopter in a slow gait.

Brad can’t see, now, vision sinking in bruise-black and rust, it feels like the world has frozen, he can’t stand up, can’t even run over to Mike. The shock shudders through him like an earthquake. His fingers are still cold from the metal handle of the knife. It’s so quiet he can hear the blood rushing in his ears, he can feel the ground spinning beneath him, he can see the clouds fleeing across the empty, endless sky.

They were just _kids_.

It was never fun.

A cough. Brad raises his head to see Garnet striding forward, not past Huber but just far enough forward that Brad can see his face clearly. He shows no remorse, not a flicker of pity. Just a stony glare and the glint of gold. “Well, that’s that, then.”

Brad says nothing in return. He just stands, ever-so-slowly, staring Garnet straight in the eye, cold and half-broken and holding himself together by the seams, and he walks to where Huber’s lying curled on the ground. The wind rustles the grass, sticky with blood. In that black night, he kneels, takes Huber’s hand in his own and clutches it, still warm, half-pulse beating erratically and he screws his eyes shut and counts down from ten.

On the fifth count, a gunshot rings out across the field.

Brad almost leaps out of his own skin, eyes widening just fast enough to see a hole open up in Garnet’s forehead and his body fall face-first into the dirt in a puddle of rich red. He looks up, around, confused, in utter disbelief, the entire world falling apart around him and stitching itself back up simultaneously, and his earpiece buzzes.

“I got him, right?” Jones’ voice is uncertain and shaky. The shot is still echoing.

Despite everything, a laugh burbles out of Brad’s chest, desperate and terrified and thankful for their sniper on the roof, Huber breathing shallow beneath him but squeezing his hand hard in the sharp silver moonlight as the clouds clear a path. “Fuck,” he whispers. “ _Fuck_.”

“I don’t know what that means, Brad, but I’m assuming I hit him. Man, this sniper business is actually kinda fun.”

Brad exhales slowly. The helicopter starts whipping the wind again; the Eagle is flying away, but he doesn’t have the energy to care. “Jones, it’s Huber.”

“Oh.”

“What?” It’s Ben’s voice, now, rough and breaking. “What happened?”

Elyse chimes in. “Is he…”

“Garnet,” Brad says, crack in his voice like a tremor, and that’s enough to make them all fall silent. “Hurry.” He shuts off the earpiece and turns his gaze to Huber, who lets out a groan of pain. “Mike, c’mon, man, you got this, _stay with me_.”

Huber’s eyes flutter open, and Brad’s heart falls to his knees because he’s _smiling_. “I had him. I… I had him, Bells.”

“I know you did, Mike.” Brad strips off his shirt and starts tearing it into long strips. “Just hold on. They’re coming, you’re gonna be-” he chokes back a sob, “you’re gonna be just fine.”

Huber’s voice seems faraway. “Brad,” he says woozily, staring straight up, “Brad, did we get ‘em? We got ‘em, right?”

“Yeah, Mike.” He starts sopping up the blood with the cloth.

“Was it cool?”

He laughs. “Yeah, Mike.”

“I love you, man,” Huber murmurs, weak and fading fast and Brad’s heart stops for the third time that night. “I really do.”

Orphans of the city in the dirt covered in blood. Youth like a curse, like a poison. And love, love, love, like a creeping vine.

“Okay,” Brad says like it’s normal, like he isn’t crying, like Huber isn’t dying in his arms, “alright, Mike. Everything’s gonna be okay. I love you too.” He whispers it like it’s shameful, it tastes like salty tears and the tang of iron. He repeats it, stronger now, louder but no less shaky. “I love you too.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” says Brad with a trembling laugh, every word delicate, “Yeah, I do. And you- you’re not dying on me, alright?”

Huber nods, still staring up, glass-eyed. “Alright.”

Brad swallows the lump in his throat. “Hold on. Ian’s coming, just stay with me now, okay? Just hold on.” They’re both smiling through their tears, “Hold on. We’re going to be alright. Okay? Mike? You’re going to be alright, you hear me? Mike?”

Huber closes his eyes as the rest of the crew finally stumbles onto the scene, and a seagull cries in the night on the coast ten miles away.

The blood in the grass dries black.

Brad does not let go of his hand.

 

* * *

 

EXT. A DENNY’S PARKING LOT – DAY

When Brad wakes up, they’re in Red County and Huber is bathed in the sunlight of early September in the backseat.

They have a lot to talk about.

Ian and Ben are loudly discussing their favourite kinds of waffles in line to get takeout. Kyle is cracking jokes about cloud shapes with Elyse whilst withdrawing a frankly suspicious amount of money from an ATM. Huber and Brad are in the car stumbling through careful words- because what do you say? After that? After all of it?

And Jones- Jones watches them, a twinkle in his eye and a feeling in his gut that this will last a very, very long time- safety, that is. He could get used to this.

 

And so, the city’s silent.

A family runs.

Nobody hurts anymore.

 

 

A SHOT OF LOS SANTOS;

A FUCHSIA SUNSET, AT DEL PERRO PIER, 

EVERYTHING EERILY STILL.

 

TITLE, OVERLAID IN WHITE TEXT:

** IF THE SKY IS PINK AND WHITE **

 

CUT TO BLACK.

 

CREDITS ROLL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for joining me on this wild ride of a stylistic experiment. i don’t know how much fic i’m gonna be doing in the future but i hope you enjoyed this story, i know it took forever but i did it! it was so so fun to drop back into los santos for a bit. let me know what you thought! love you!


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